


Trick of the Light

by bluflamingo



Series: Dysfunction verse [4]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluflamingo/pseuds/bluflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows better than this, but that's not enough to stop him; written for prehisoricsea in the Sweet Charity auction</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trick of the Light

Jack says, “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink, you look like you could use one.”

John’s been in meetings for the last twelve hours, trapped under miles of concrete and rock, without even Lorne there to make it a bit more bearable. The IOA aren’t even pissed at him for anything this time, and he still feels like his uniform shirt is going to strangle him. It’s not like he was expected fulsome praise for nearly killing himself saving Earth, but this is cruel and really-not-all-that-unusual torture, and he doesn’t deserve it, he’s nearly sure.

“Um,” he says, hesitating. It won’t be the first time he’s let Jack take him out to a bar, someplace where no-one pays much attention to two men together, but before, he’s been on his own on a strange world.

Jack shakes his head. “And here I was thinking five years in charge of Atlantis might have made you more decisive.”

John flushes, stung. He’s pretty sure Jack’s kidding, but… But it’s still enough to make him nod. “Let me change first.”

Jack just looks at him for a long moment, like they’re not in the middle of a buzzing corridor, like this couldn’t get John dragged up on charges and Jack accused of sexual harassment. It must be nice to be so sure of yourself, John thinks.

“Go ahead,” Jack says, like something snapping, letting John go.

*

John doesn’t actually have many clothing choices at the mountain, when most of his stuff is still in his quarters on Atlantis. Once he’s ruled out anything uniform like, he’s left with dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt that’s possibly a little too tight to be really appropriate for drinks with a general. He can’t even remember stuffing it into his bag when he was packing in a rush to come back to Earth.

Still, Jack knows he came back in a hurry, and he’s seen John looking worse. If he doesn’t like it he can… Except John’s not worried Jack won’t like it. That’s the whole damn problem, made worse when John shoves his feet back into his unlaced boots and pulls on his leather jacket. He remembers this look, from before Atlantis and Afghanistan and Nancy.

Nothing to be done about it. Suck it up and smile, and maybe think next time before being half-goaded into saying yes. He just hopes the effects aren’t going to be as life-altering as they were the last time.

He expects to find Jack outside the conference room they spent all day in, but when he gets back there, it’s empty. He’s got his hand halfway to his ear piece before he remembers he’s not wearing it and even if he was, it wouldn’t do him any good here. He takes half a second to be really disoriented, but between the air force and the Pegasus galaxy, his tracking skills are more than good enough to sniff out one air force general in a confined space.

He’s still a little surprised when he succeeds first time, knocking on Daniel’s open door frame to find Jack leaning against the desk and Daniel sitting on a stool so close he might as well be sitting between Jack’s legs.

They both look up when John clears his throat.

“Colonel,” Jack says. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

“No, sir,” John says before he can catch himself. This whole thing has a weird enough vibe, without adding that into the mix. Too late now, again. “Are you joining us, Dr Jackson?”

Jack and Daniel look at each other, expressions unreadable. Last time John saw Daniel, he was lying in Atlantis’ infirmary, quizzing John about Pegasus and his experience of the Ancients, and looking at John, always *looking* at him, like John didn’t know what the looks meant. John ended up avoiding him until he went back to Earth, because the truth is, Daniel’s hot and smart and good with a gun, and John doesn’t have enough self-control to resist that.

Not even when he hears the same rumors everyone else hears.

“No,” Jack says slowly, still looking at Daniel. “No, I don’t believe he will be. Will you, Daniel?”

Daniel’s expression doesn’t change as he says, “No, I need to finish up a translation here.”

It’s not the words, it’s not even the way they say it, but John knows, dead certain, that there’s something more to that exchange, something he’s not picking up. He should have asked to be beamed back to Atlantis, or made an excuse, hung around the mountain – Mitchell’s got to be around somewhere. Except that he’s never felt more out of place in Atlantis than he does right now, and he’s getting really tired of using up his self-control on things he can’t have. Doesn’t leave much for the things he could have.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” John says. Daniel turns to look at him, same blank expression, and fuck, how does Mitchell deal with him every day, this level of _fuck off, it’s none of your business_? It’s already driving John crazy. Of course, maybe Mitchell’s never had Daniel look at him like he wants to tie him up and have his way with him; maybe it’s the disconnect between the two that’s bugging John. “More debriefings with the IOA,” he adds, in case Daniel’s blank look is one of misunderstanding.

“The price of saving the world,” Jack says, falsely bright. “You get your reward in paperwork and pointless meetings.”

John wants to say _maybe I should have let the Wraith have it, then,_ but he’s not sure he can make the words light enough to cut through whatever’s lingering in the room.

The silence stretches on long enough that John wonders if he should excuse himself, let them say goodbye without him there. Maybe excuse himself completely, let them do whatever it is that they want to do without him there.

Daniel’s the first one to break, pushing his stool back and standing up. “You’re staying at the hotel tonight?” he asks Jack, who nods. “Good. I thought Vala might like a night away from the mountain.”

He says it idly, like she’s a friend, a team-mate, except that he looks away as he says it, and even John can feel how the air shifts with the words. Jack’s face doesn’t change. Doesn’t even twitch.

“Well, you two kids have fun,” Jack says, pushing away from the bench. “Come on, Colonel.”

He guides John out with a hand on his back, and John feels Daniel’s eyes on him long after they should be out of his sight.

*

Jack says, “I’ve got a car,” and signs one out from the SGC’s lot, like John couldn’t have done the same thing. Because John couldn’t, now; Jack made the offer, Jack will choose the bar, Jack will drive, and John won’t ask how he’s going to get back to the mountain without a car.

Jack doesn’t talk while he drives, and John watches the world pass by his window, trying not to take any of it in. He already feels less alien here than he has since we went to Atlantis the first time, like his body’s already adjusting to living here again, even when he doesn’t think he will be. It’s not a feeling he particularly appreciates.

“Here okay?” Jack asks, slowing the car and pulling into a parking lot. John looks at a brick building, neon sign gone dead in the window, half a dozen cars in the lot. Maybe it’s where they came before. Maybe it’s where he’s been with other people, other men, or on his own, looking.

Maybe it’s not, but it’s the sort of place he would have.

“Looks fine to me,” he says.

Jack orders whisky for himself and beer for John, one eyebrow going up when John opens his mouth to correct the order. Beer is friends, is hanging out with someone safe and familiar, sunny afternoons or late night comfort that he doesn’t want to think about. This is a hard liquor kind of evening, except those are the kind where being drunk won’t help, and there’s no such thing as a pleasant buzz from whisky. Not for John.

He takes his beer, swallows a third without even checking the label. Whatever it is, he’s drunk worse.

Jack jerks his head to the back of the bar, well away from the handful of occupied tables. There’s a sound system humming out something just on the edge of audible, just enough to cover the murmur of conversations, and the ceiling lights are obviously designed to take stronger bulbs than they’ve got, casting everything into half-shadow. When Jack leans back, all John can see is the light bouncing off the amber liquid in his glass. It’s an image with no good associations; John rests his elbows on the table, leans forward to shift the picture.

“They should be finished with you tomorrow,” Jack says. “You can go home for the weekend.”

He means home as in Atlantis, not home as in Pegasus, deference to where they are, but John still stumbles over the hope.

“Do you know when they’re likely to send us back?” he asks, risking it. He’s not going to ask if, that’s not an answer he’s ready to hear yet.

Jack shakes his head. “You know how they are. Now they’ve got a chance at control, they’re not going to give up easily.”

John thinks about the Athosians, stranded on the mainland. Teyla said they just picked up Atlantis and went, didn’t think to ask her and Ronon if they wanted to stay behind until they were already on their way. The Athosians probably haven’t a clue where the city’s gone, while the IOA deliberates over sending them home, like they haven’t dug the chair out of the rubble, like they don’t have whatever the Odyssey brought home.

“I guess they need to prove they’re worth their pay checks,” he says, because none of that is something he can say here, even if he could say it without mentioning spaceships and the population of another planet.

“Anything’s possible,” Jack says lightly, and John can’t tell if he’s answering what John did say, or what he didn’t.

John hesitates, then asks, “Will you be going back to Washington?” weirdly nervous, not sure if he has the right to ask.

Whether he does or not, the question brings Jack forward, close enough for his face to slip out of the shadows. He’s not really close at all, still on the other side of the table, but John has to swallow against his own dry throat, like Jack’s leaned right in to him. He can’t look away.

“Monday morning,” Jack says, and blinks. John looks down, fumbles for his beer, feeling his face flush. He definitely shouldn’t be drinking, except he’s pretty sure this isn’t alcohol driven. “Invitation to Home World’s monthly dinner, and I don’t suppose my date would appreciate being stood up.”

For one crazy moment, John thinks Jack means Nancy. It’s only a moment, brought on by association, as though his ex-wife doesn’t already have a new husband, but he knows he wouldn’t be surprised if Jack said her name. If Jack said he was taking her, looking at John like he looked at Daniel earlier, like he’s just waiting for the response he knows is coming.

Jack takes the bottle from John’s hand and says, “Buy you another?”

*

John watches Jack lean on the bar, smile at the bar-tender who’s in the middle of serving someone else. Jack always looks good, even out of uniform, and he knows how to get people to look at him. How to get John to look, and that’s how John knows this isn’t like last time, when Jack treated him like a distant friend, more than anything else.

He should leave, and he knows it, because Jack and Daniel are not just friends. They’re not even ‘not just friends’ the way John is with his team, bonded through years of danger and near-death experiences, too close to ever successfully let anyone else in. And then there’s Vala, and then there’s Jack with a date… and then there’s John, and wherever John is in this, he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be there. Pretty sure he shouldn’t want to be there, but he does and he is.

He hopes they’ll be leaving the galaxy again soon.

Jack’s still waiting, turned slightly away from John, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping the bar idly. John watches him, watches a couple of other guys watching him, and that’s when he realizes that Jack’s not the only person being watched. There’s someone looking at him as well, someone whose eyes John can feel, hard against his skin. He can’t see anyone when he lets his gaze flicker round the bar, but he knows how they’d look if he did, the flat-eyed stare he’d get back. Someone’s hiding in the shadows, looking at him, and he can’t tell if he’s why they’re looking or if Jack is. If it’s both of them, though he can’t imagine that look on someone who wants both of them. Anyone who knows to look has to know what they’re seeing when they look at him and Jack.

“Something bothering you?” There’s a fresh beer on the table, and Jack sliding back into the seat opposite, whisky in hand.

“I –“ ‘Someone watching’ sounds like someone dangerous, someone from work, enough to stop this, maybe. Not how John means it, but the threat might be enough, and John’s not fool enough to think the buzz under his skin is the alcohol. “No,” he says, and smiles a little. “Was just waiting for you to get back.”

It’s the wrong note, first one all evening. Jack twitches slightly, almost a head shake, and John wants to apologize, except that would make it worse. He ducks his head instead, spins the beer bottle between his hands, slow so nothing spills. Feels Jack looking at him, feels mystery man watching him. Feels the phantom press of his thigh holster like a reminder, all the reasons this is a bad idea. Doesn’t care, and when he lifts his head to drink, Jack’s eyes track his mouth on the neck of the bottle like John never smiled.

John feels that look everywhere, cock growing heavy in his jeans. Yes, then. Too late to turn back now.

“I’ve been reading your reports,” Jack says. When John looks at him, his eyes flicker away for a moment, then back. “Quite a habit you’re making of crashing ships.”

It’s been three years, but it’s still an office joke that Lorne blew up John’s Ancient battle ship. John doesn’t think that’s what Jack’s talking about. Even less so when he remembers the hive ship that’s lying at the bottom of Atlantis’ ocean. Kind of a habit of that as well, dead wraith at the bottom of his seas.

He nods, not sure what to say, and Jack just waits. John’s got a dozen flip comments lined up in the back of his throat, but he can’t say any of them here, with Jack, like this.

When he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Yes, sir,” so smooth he feels like he’s channeling Lorne. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but maybe it’s not, when Jack’s eyes darken.

“You might want to look into doing less of that,” Jack says, leaning away, back into the shadows.

“Yes, sir,” John says again.

*

When he excuses himself to use the men’s room, he thinks he wouldn’t be surprised if someone followed him. Instead, when the door swings closed behind him, he feels the absence of that look almost more heavily than he its presence. Like when a wraith queen lets him go, connection snapping, leaving him off balance.

It’s probably not why his hands are jittery when he fumbles the lock to the stall. Definitely not, because he knows exactly why that is. It doesn’t feel much different from ‘if this works, I’ll be dead,’ anticipation.

Hands on his belt, he’s not sure whether he excused himself to piss or to jerk off. It wouldn’t take much, buzz of arousal under his skin and the memory of Jack’s eyes on him. Of Daniel’s, on Atlantis. He’s sure Jack will know if he does. He’s less sure if Jack will like that or not.

That’s not true. He does know.

He fastens his pants again, shifting uncomfortably, and washes his hands.

When he goes back to the bar, Jack’s standing up, holding John’s jacket. “Ready to go?” he says.

*

Jack’s staying at the Broadmoor, one of the perks of being a general, and the valet doesn’t even blink when Jack guides John towards the front door with a firm hand on his back, pressing too close. John shivers, nothing to do with the cool night air, and feels the flash of eyes on him again. Jack laughs at him a little. John’s glad he can’t see Jack’s face, that Jack can’t see his, tense, too hot.

The elevator doors close on just the two of them, Jack standing right by the doors. John shifts a little where he’s leaning against the back wall, and Jack looks at him. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even change his expression, but John leans back. I’m over here. Not moving. Sir.

Definitely sir.

When the elevator doors open on Jack’s floor, he waits for John to step out first. For a moment, John’s stranded in peach corridors, identical doors, more lost that he’s ever been, crashed in the desert or losing his memory in Atlantis. “This way,” Jack says, hand light across John’s shoulder, not hard enough to turn him. John goes, half a step behind Jack, pulled along.

Jack’s room is more peach walls, thick, dark green comforter with a pile of pillows, curtains open to the city lights. Jack takes his jacket off, hangs it over the back to a dark wood desk chair, and for the first time, it occurs to John to wonder where Jack changed at the base. It doesn’t seem right for a general to be changing with everyone else in the locker room.

“Take off your jacket and your shoes,” Jack says, back to John. “And your socks,” he adds.

John does as he’s told, pressing his bare toes into the thick carpet. Stupid thing to like about hotels, but after years of bases and tents and metal floors, he does. He hesitates, waits for Jack to say something else, then folds his jacket, piles it neatly with his boots and socks behind the door.

Straightening, he catches a brief glimpse of himself in the bureau mirror, barefoot, t-shirt that shows off his stomach, jeans that outline his erection. He’s too old for this. Too tired to stop it.

“Get on your knees,” Jack says, toneless. He’s leaning back against the desk, backlit by the single lamp. His slacks are too well tailored to show anything but a hint of arousal.

John goes, down on his knees by the door, maybe ten feet from Jack. It’s not a trick of the light this time that makes Jack’s eyes darken, and John feels a tiny sliver of something uncurl and float away. Right choice. It makes a nice change.

“Now come here.”

It’s awkward, movement he doesn’t make often, but it doesn’t hurt. John’s body is used to him being on his knees, too used to it for pushing-forty aches and pains. He notices the drag of the denim of his jeans over his erection instead, muffled through cotton boxers, and when he stops at Jack’s feet, he wants to moan.

He sits back on his curled feet, lets it pull his jeans a little tighter, showing off a little. Hands on his thighs, because he knows what’s coming next, and Jack makes a little noise that might be approval.

Whether it is or not, his hands come into John’s field of vision, opening his pants, pushing them down with his underwear. He’s halfway to hard, thick enough that John knows he’ll feel it later. Jack rests one thumb on the base of his cock, tilting it down a little, and John’s already leaning in.

The hand in his hair stops him, twisting hard enough to sting his eyes, pulling him back. John keeps his eyes down, even when Jack tilts his face up, waiting for Jack’s condemnation, angry words.

There’s a long, long moment of nothing, just the sound of the two of them breathing. Maybe it’s worse than words. It’d take one jerk of Jack’s arm to send John sprawling across the room, and Jack would do it, John’s certain. He’s expecting it so clearly that it takes him a second to register that Jack’s using the hand in his hair to guide him forward, slow enough on the uptake to feel the tip of Jack’s cock press against his closed lips before he opens up and takes it, relief so strong he nearly over-balances.

He’s too conscious of his role, Jack’s role, to lose himself the way he sometimes does. It almost doesn’t matter, Jack’s cock hardening in his mouth, enough that he’s going to have to pull back or choke, in the end. John sucks hard, hands still on his thighs, feeling his own muscles tense and release as he rocks into the motion, Jack’s hand still tight in his hair, not pushing, just there, enough to remind John.

The sound of a second key card in the lock brings him to a stuttering halt, heart beat kicking up hard. It’s not like he truly thinks Jack would hurt him, but he can still feel the stranger looking at him, hard, possessive eyes. Just because Jack wouldn’t mean to hurt him, doesn’t mean Jack knows where his line is.

The lock beeps, the door swings open, and Jack says, “Daniel.”

*

“You could have waited,” Daniel says, sounding genuinely annoyed. John ducks his head, tries to make himself small, invisible. “Is he really that good?”

“I haven’t exactly had a chance to find out,” Jack says.

John closes his eyes. He’s not going to be sent away, that much is clear. It’s everything else that he can’t understand, Vala, and that goodbye in Daniel’s lab.

“I noticed,” Daniel says. “I was almost tempted to do it myself.”

And then John gets it. The stranger watching them in the bar, the eyes on them when they reached the hotel. It was Daniel.

“That wouldn’t have been sporting,” Jack says, mocking. It’s half-familiar, but John misses the affection that should lie under the words and doesn’t. He can’t tell if he’s the game, or if they’re a game to each other. If Jack’s playing, or Daniel, or both of them together.

Whatever it is, it’s a whole lot more than letting a general fuck him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Daniel says, toneless. He’s behind John somewhere, and John wants to look for him, try to pick something up from the way he’s standing, or sitting.

“You want to watch?” Jack asks, sounding almost surprised.

“Not particularly. But you seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I’m sure there’s enough to go round,” Jack says, tugging at John’s hair till he has to lift his head.

He should want to leave, should be trying to find an excuse already, but he doesn’t and he’s not. He wouldn’t have said no, if this had been offered a couple of hours ago.

“Let him finish you,” Daniel says casually. “And then I’ll fuck him.”

It might be nothing more than what it sounds like, except that if this is the pay-off, it seems like an over-elaborate game. He thinks about Daniel watching him at the bar, Daniel’s harsh, controlling gaze, and he can’t imagine that man on his knees with a cock in his mouth, or on his hands and knees getting fucked.

He can imagine it for Jack, but not like this. He can’t imagine Jack giving up that much control, like this.

Maybe he’s wrong, but Jack’s low moan when he gets John’s mouth back on his cock says he isn’t. So, no pressure, John thinks, forcing down the urge to laugh, and takes Jack as deep as he can, first try. The head of Jack’s cock bumps the back of John’s throat, thicker, fuller than before, and John has to pull back slightly, adjust.

This is one of the things he’s not out of practice at, though. His throat relaxes on recent muscle memory, and he slides his mouth back up, swallows, takes it. Jack groans again, hands dropping to John’s shoulders.

It’s easy enough to give Jack what he wants – what he needs – even without direction. John sucks hard, head bobbing a fraction with his own rhythm, tongue flicking out to touch Jack’s balls and make him hiss. John keeps his own hands on his thighs, tight. It’s not quite right, too easy to balance, but he can’t keep his hands behind his back without something to hold them there. He doubts either of them has handcuffs here.

He keeps waiting for the world to wash out, narrow down to Jack’s deepening breath, but there’s always, always the flicker of Daniel moving, out of sight but not out of sound. John’s got no idea what he’s doing, but it’s more than sitting and watching, constant twitchy movements that keep trying to grab John’s attention away from the cock in his mouth, the guy he’s servicing.

It’s Jack who finally pulls him back, hands coming up to fist in John’s hair, still his head. He knows what’s coming next, but he still half-chokes when Jack thrusts into his mouth, shoving further down his throat. For a second, he can’t breathe, suffocating, then Jack pulls back, head of his cock spilling pre-come on the back of John’s tongue. He’s not ready for Jack to shove back in, but it’s eminently clear that he’s not going to get the chance to make himself ready. Jack’s breathing hard now, fucking John’s mouth, obviously close, and John doesn’t care that he can’t really breathe, that he can hear his own graceless gasps for air, because he wants it, God, so bad, so much –

And then Jack’s coming, John’s nose pressed into his stomach, Jack’s cock jerking in his mouth as he swallows around it, desperate.

Jack lets go of him so fast he loses his balance, tips back and down onto one hand. When he looks up, Jack’s still hard, cock red and slick, and John leans back in, wanting it back in his mouth.

He’s stopped by a hand on his throat, pulling him back. “My turn now,” Daniel says, low and close in his ear. “Take off your clothes.”

John’s left knee locks when he stands up, his body’s retribution for thinking he could handle this, and he stumbles a little before he catches his balance on the foot of the bed. He thinks he feels Jack’s hand on his hip, steadying him, but maybe it’s just Jack’s warmth as he moves past John, settles in against the pillows, still wearing his shirt, cock resting against his thigh.

Daniel’s waiting, when John looks up from stripping off his own clothes, arms crossed over his naked chest like he stands around looking impatient with no clothes and an erection all the time. Maybe he does. Maybe that’s how SG-1 rolls, except now John’s picturing his ex-commander without her clothes on, and there’s just no place good that can go.

“Lie down. On your stomach.”

John wants to lie between Jack’s legs, suck him off again, but he can’t imagine that would be welcome. He settles for being close enough to touch, if someone offers, wincing at his own weight against his hard cock. Not for the first time, he wishes he was one of those people who can come from just being fucked, without needing to be touched.

“Good,” Daniel says. John feels him sit on the bed on John’s other side, thinks about turning his head on his folded arms to look. Daniel runs a hand up the back of John’s right thigh, then nudges his legs open a little further. “Hmm. Better.” He cups John’s balls for a brief moment, squeezes a little harder than John’s comfortable with. “Do you think he could take me?”

John feels a flicker of unease shiver up the back of his neck. It might be hot in porn, maybe even when he’s playing, but he knows from experience that being fucked dry when he hasn’t had anyone fuck him in months is not a good idea.

“Not unless he has a much closer relationship with his marines than anyone’s ever mentioned,” Jack says, more genuinely amused than John’s heard all evening. “Be nice to the man who’s going to let you come in his ass.”

Daniel huffs an irritated sigh, but it’s followed by the sound of a drawer opening, then a flip top, so John’s not too worried.

Daniel’s patience is legendary – something John’s used on Rodney more than once – but apparently it’s also limited, because Daniel shoves two lube-slick fingers into John without warning, working him open with more brutal efficiency that unbridled lust. John hisses against the burn, shifts a little, trying to ease the sensation, the ache in his cock.

“Keep still,” Daniel says flatly. “He doesn’t give me orders any more.”

“Yes, sir,” John murmurs into the pillow. Automatic reflex, the kind he never manages for his superior officers. He hears Jack chuckle faintly, way above him, and wonders if this is the act, or if before was. If maybe it all is, still, some game Jack and Daniel are playing out, one for which John doesn’t have the rules.

Daniel pulls out, comes back with three fingers. He’s got big hands, and John’s body’s not going as fast as Daniel wants it to. He takes a deep breath, edging the burn a little closer to real pain, and lets it out slowly, then does it again. It works, kind of. Lets him relax to the point that it’s uncomfortable, but not so close to actually painful.

He can taste the words - _slow down, give me a minute_ \- in the back of his throat, but he knows they’ll stay there. It would be easier with a safe word, a way of saying stop without saying the word, when the word burns and chokes and won’t be spoken.

And it’s not like he doesn’t want this, when he’s hard and leaking, still turned on.

Daniel pulls out again, trailing his hand up John’s ass, leaving a sticky trail of lube as he goes. John listens to him move around and closes his eyes. He wants to reach out. Wants to touch Jack, reach for his hand.

Wants someone to kiss him, and is glad that Jack and Daniel haven’t kissed each other. He thinks that might be more than he can take right now.

The bed shifts again, Daniel’s warmth and weight coming down over John’s body, Daniel’s cock nudging at the top of his thigh, then pushing into him, slow, ruthless slide that forces John’s body to take it. John knows how to do this, at least, and he feels good, full and warm.

“That’s it.” Daniel moves, pushing his weight up onto his hands and shifting his cock inside John, making him groan. It’s not quite the right angle, but it still feels pretty great. “Tight,” Daniel says.

He wraps his hands around John’s biceps, leans his weight into it. John shivers, shifts restlessly. Sense memory of a reality that never existed, of being without something he never really lost. He pushes it back down, and then Daniel pulls out, pushes back in a little deeper than before.

John wasn’t expecting gentle or slow or anything close to it. Which is good, because he doesn’t get it. Daniel leans his weight further and further into his hands, until John thinks he’s going to have bruises there come morning, a ring of fingerprints on each arm to hide under long sleeves and sweaters. He fucks John hard, each thrust enough to drag John’s cock against the thick sheets. It hurts and it’s not enough and Daniel’s still not got the right angle to hit John’s prostate, and he doesn’t care, because he can feel Jack watching it and it’s not enough but it’s still more than he had this morning. Still better, enough that he can’t keep from gasping in time with Daniel’s deep, firm thrusts, the slap of his balls against John’s ass.

He fumbles one hand out, arm bending awkwardly, reaching for Jack’s cock, just wanting to touch. Daniel shifts his hand up John’s arm before he can get there, tilting his weight over slightly, and it changes the angle he’s fucking John at, makes John cry out with Daniel’s next thrust.

He’s sure it doesn’t mean anything when Daniel pushes even deeper into him, shudders, groans, and comes, hips twitching. John feels it all through his own body like he’s coming as well, pressing his forehead against the pillows and trying to breathe through it.

He wants to be touched so much that his skin hurts.

They stay like that for a drawn out moment, until Daniel’s shivers die down to nothing and John’s breath goes back to normal.

It hurts when Daniel pulls out, enough that John knows he’s going to feel this when he’s sitting through another debrief tomorrow. Daniel leans back, takes his weight off John, who twists all his stiffening muscles, listening to his neck crack unpleasantly.

He’s lost his sense of where Daniel is. He rolls over, his dick throbbing in time to his own heartbeat, reaching out for someone to get him off.

What he sees is Daniel sliding his body over Jack’s, his hand closing round Jack’s stiff cock, leaning down to kiss him, Jack’s hand sliding careful and open into Daniel’s hair.

There’s a tube of lube on the edge of the bed, but no condom wrapper, and when John shifts, he can feel come and lube starting to slide down his inner thighs.

He blinks, swallows, turns his head so he doesn’t have to watch as they kiss. It’s bad enough hearing it, bad enough hearing Jack moan into Daniel’s mouth, the slap of flesh on flesh. They couldn’t be more obviously done with him if they hung a sign.

He wants to leave, but he can’t go back to the mountain smelling of sweat and sex after he left with Jack O’Neill, and he can even less get up and take a shower while they’re in here, like this. Maybe when they’ve fallen asleep. His wallet’s still in the pocket of his jeans, he could maybe get a room, shower there.

The thought of the look on the clerk’s face if he does makes him flush with imagined humiliation. Or, not really all that imagined, when he’s lying in another man’s bed, fucked out, still hard, while the man he came back with gets jerked off by his partner.

John curls onto his side, as far away from them as he can get, tries to block them out, while he lists Atlantis personnel in his head, and waits for his cock to go soft.

 

 

[Read kimberlite's tag](http://bluflamingo.dreamwidth.org/106243.html?thread=1126403#t1126403)

[Read my sequel, Keep Going](http://bluflamingo.dreamwidth.org/111079.html#cutid1) (John/Cam)


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